#panic attack in fiction

[heretherebedork]

Everything I want. Next week! And you can just see the understanding dawning in Sea's eyes even before everything happens and the way Neil is struggling so much his trauma and grief and I cannot wait to be a mess next Monday.

[indieyuugure]

Episode 5 of Aliens and Mysteries! Well that’s not suspicious. (Btw, that last word “kuso” is a Japanese curse word that varies in intensity but is equivalent in strength from “damn” to the f-word)

Previous: (3) Episode 4

Next: (3) Episode 6

See All…

[yelenasburnbook]

Lifeline

———————————————————

Pairing(s): Bob Reynolds x Fem! Reader - Platonic! Yelena & Reader Dynamic - Platonic!Bucky & Reader Dynamic 💞

Summary: After a mission goes wrong, you’re forced to confront just how much your best friend means to you, and how far you’ll go to keep her alive.

Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Gore, Injury, Blood, Medical Settings, Panic Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Distress, Explosions, & Probably too much Dialogue

A/N: Between summer classes, my sisters graduation party, and my job, this took me a lot longer than I thought it would. That being said, I’m very proud of it! I changed up the writing style to 2nd Person POV, because that’s how I used to do it, and I like it better. Enjoy this hurt/comfort that I promised 🩷

Translation: Дорогая - Sweetheart

———————————————————

The mission was going well. Suspiciously well.

Bob and Bucky had already cleared the north wing, taking out the remaining guards and disabling the perimeter defense grid without much resistance. Ava had slipped through the lower floors like a… well a ghost, disabling the compound’s internal sensors and wiping all surveillance data before the enemy even realized she was there. John was waiting on the jet, prepared to take off incase of an emergency extraction.

Alexei was not allowed on stealth missions.

It had all gone a little too smoothly. No alarms, no last minute reinforcements. Just a quick, surgical takedown.

Which made the final step feel almost too easy.

“Intel should be in the west records room,” Ava reported over comms, her voice calm and efficient, “It’s not on the servers, so someone’s keeping hard copies. Probably a hard drive. You might have to search for it though.”

“I sent you the hallway blueprints,” Bucky added, “No booby traps, no guards posted. Should be clean.”

“Should be,” Yelena muttered, side eyeing you as the two of you advanced through the smoky hallway, “Which means it absolutely won’t be.”

You snorted, “Oh come on. Maybe for once a mission could actually go right.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, “You just jinxed us, you know.”

“Please. That’s not real.”

She smacks your shoulder lightly, “That’s exactly what someone would say right before they get blown through a wall.”

You and Yelena moved through the smoke choked hallway side by side, weapons drawn, boots crunching over shattered glass. You were supposed to clear the west wing of the compound; secure the hard drive with intel, take out any remaining stragglers, and rendezvous at the extraction point.

“Bet you five bucks I find the drive first,” You murmured, flicking your eyes across the scorched corridor ahead.

Yelena scoffed, “That’s it? What will I do with that? Buy half of a New York coffee?

You grinned, “Fine, ten bucks says I get to it before you.”

“Make it twenty, and loser has to scrub the showers,” She challenges.

“You’re on.”

The complex rumbled slightly, and Yelena’s arm stuck out in front of you. The two of you halted your movements, listening for potential threats. After a few beats of silence, you both quietly carried on.

She continued the conversation, murmuring, “You’re going to regret it when you’re elbow deep in Alexei’s hair clogs.”

You gagged audibly, “No no no, that’s foul. I take it back. No showers.”

“You can’t take it back you coward!” She hissed softly, her finger jabbing into your shoulder as she stepped over the body of a downed Hydra soldier.

“Fine!” You roll your eyes, “If I lose I’ll clean the showers, but if I win,” You paused for a second, thinking, “You’re doing my laundry and folding my socks into little burritos like you do yours.”

Yelena scowled, “I don’t fold my socks into burritos.”

“You do. I’ve seen it. You treat your socks better than your teammates.”

Before Yelena could fire back, Bucky’s voice came back over comms, low, amused, maybe slightly annoyed, “Is this really happening? Are we wagering chores in the middle of a hostile zone?”

Yelena taps her comms with a smirk, “It’s called multitasking old man.”

A low, familiar hum vibrated through your ears, “Sounded more like flirting to me.” Bob added, teasingly.

You grinned, tapping your own earpiece, “You jealous?”

His dry tone didn’t miss a beat, “Of the world’s weirdest foreplay? Not even a little.”

You shrugged, “Sounded a tiny bit jealous.”

Bob’s chuckle came soft and low over the line, “Eyes up, sweetheart.”

The two of you continued on, stealthy, and silent.

You and Yelena had always moved like this; side by side, shoulder to shoulder, like you were born knowing each other’s rhythm. It hadn’t started that way. She didn’t let people in easily, and you’d spent the first few weeks trading dry sarcasm and fake glares across briefing tables. But something had shifted.

Maybe it was the shared past. The haunted edges. The quiet understanding between two people who knew what it meant to be used, and to fight your way back to yourself. Maybe it was that she never treated you like you were fragile, and you never treated her like she had to be unbreakable.

Whatever it was, it stuck. And before long, she was your best friend.

Not the kind you just trained with. She was the one who’d knock on your door at midnight because she found a movie she knew you’d hate and wanted to make you watch it anyway. The one who made fun of your combat stance while bandaging your hand. The one who stood between you and your demons without a second thought.

Sister. Best friend. Lifeline.

And now she was smiling like none of this was dangerous.

“You coming or what?” Yelena teased, already stepping into the next corridor.

You smirked, “I’m just making sure you don’t walk into another tripwire.”

“Please. I am the tripwire.” You made a face at her that practically screamed, that doesn’t make any sense.

Over comms, Bucky sighed, “And I’m the one with a migraine now.”

You both laughed quietly.

The two of you turned the corner into what looked like an old generator room. The walls were charred, exposed wires were hanging; still sparking, and… a sound. Just a hum at first, quietly buzzing through the walls. Then rising.

A trap.

Your expression dropped, “Yelena-”

A flash of light. A sharp beep. Neither of you even had time to turn around.

The explosion hit like a thunderclap, blinding white and deafening. You slammed into the ground with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. Your back hit something hard, maybe debris, maybe a wall, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was that your ears were ringing painfully, the air was thick with dust, and something was burning. Your whole body hurt, head pounding with every beat of your heart.

And Yelena-

Yelena was nowhere in sight.

You blinked rapidly, trying to orient yourself. Blood dripped down your temple, warm and sticky. Your vision swam, and the comms were a static mess in your ear, with nothing but garbled voices and white noise.

You tried to push yourself up, your arms trembling beneath you, and legs unsteady. Every fiber of your being screamed for you to stop, and your powers sparked faintly at your fingertips; weak and unfocused.

Then you saw her.

A pile of rubble. Blonde hair. An arm too still.

“No,” You breathed hard, stumbling forward on instinct, “No, no, no- Yelena!”

The sound of your own voice made your head throb and your vision blur. The vibrations in your skull sent a white hot pain down your neck and you groaned, pushing yourself forward.

You dragged yourself across the broken ground, pushing aside scorched metal and fractured concrete to reach her. Your hands shook, blood smearing your palms, and you weren’t sure if it was yours or hers.

When you finally uncovered Yelena, she was still breathing, but barely. Her body was limp, unconscious, and stained with ash and blood.

Your heart plummeted.

Protocol in this situation was to fall back, to regroup. But you couldn’t move, you couldn’t leave her. Your arms found themselves hooked under Yelena’s, as you fought your own fatigue, and dragged her out of the rubble. Your body was trembling, tired, and nearly collapsing under the weight. But your eyes were wide and frantic, and your heart was thumping faster than you thought it could.

She had to be okay, she just had to be.

“Y/N! Fall back, now!” Bucky’s voice barked through the comms.

But you didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You knelt beside Yelena’s body, your own chest heaving, tears mixing with the soot on your face. For the first time in a long, long time, you didn’t know what to do.

——————

The jet was moving fast, cutting through clouds and sky, but time still felt too slow.

Yelena was laid out across the med-table, strapped in, Bucky and Ava working furiously to stabilize her. Blood was still seeping from the gash in her side, and her breaths remained uneven. The sight of her made your stomach twist. You hovered nearby, trying your best to help. But your vision was still blurry, and the pounding in your head made you nauseous and dizzy.

Bob watched you warily, not straying too far.

“I can help. Just-” You stepped forward, reaching for a roll of gauze someone tossed near the med table. But your hands were shaking too badly to grip it.

“Y/N,” Bucky said quietly.

“I can do it, just let me-” You stammered, your voice ragged as you reached back for the gauze near the edge of the tray. Your fingers barely curled around it before it slipped from your grasp again, hitting the floor with a soft thud. Your breath hitched, short and frantic, “Shit- I can-”

Bucky gently stepped between you and the table, bending slightly to your level. His voice was softer than usual, “You’re not okay. You have to step back.”

“No, no no no, she’s not okay! She needs help! I need- I need to help her, I can’t-” Your voice cracked, raw with panic, “She’s not waking up, she’s not-”

Bucky glanced to Bob, who didn’t hesitate.

He reached out and gently pulled you away from the chaos, wrapping his arms around you even as you resisted, “Hey, hey- sweetheart, look at me.”

“No! Let me go, Bob- she needs-”

“She needs them right now. You need me.”

You shook your head, body trembling in his grasp, eyes still locked on the blood still soaking through Yelena’s suit. You tugged at his arms once more.

“Stop,” he whispered, “Breathe, honey. Just breathe.”

You could only whimper in response, finally feeling the affects of your sudden movements, the throbbing pain fading back into your skull.

Bob held you tighter, “You’re hurt, you’re bleeding, and you’ve probably got a concussion. Let me help you.”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, trembling hard, “I can’t-I can’t think. Oh god what if she-” Bob shut that down quickly.

“She’s alive. You saved her.” He soothed, hand stroking your back softly, but you shook your head, crying now, silent tears streaking your soot covered cheeks.

“She wasn’t moving-” you were cut off,

“Baby breathe. Come on, in through your nose.”

You were gently guided to sit against the wall of the jet, his body pressed to yours, one hand cradling the back of your head, and you took slow breaths, “Good girl. That’s it. I’ve got you.”

As your breathing began to steady, he carefully examined the wound on your temple. The blood still hadn’t clotted. He reached for the medical kit, using its contents to gently dab at the wound. He grabbed the small penlight, testing it before meeting your eyes.

“Follow the light, but keep your head still.” He ordered softly, heightened concern etched into his features.

You flinched, but obeyed.

Your left eye lagged slightly, and the dilation of your pupils was severely delayed. Bob’s expression turned grim, as he turned to the others, “Concussion confirmed,” he relayed, and Bucky grunted in response. He turned back to you, “You’re gonna sit still for the rest of the flight.”

You grimaced, “But-”

“No buts. Head down pretty girl. Let me wrap this.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder as he gently patched you up, arms still trembling. Your eyes flicked back to Yelena every few seconds, never staying away for long.

Your breathing was slow again, but still ragged, trembling hands clinging to his sleeve as he cleaned the wound, pressing gauze gently to the side of your head.

“I thought she was dead.” You whispered.

“She’s not,” Bob replied, firm but gentle, “You saved her.”

——————

Back at the Tower, the med team was waiting on the landing pad. Yelena was whisked away on a stretcher. You immediately tried to follow, stumbling forward with glassy eyes.

Bob’s hand closed around your waist the second you tried to push forward.

“Y/N,” he said gently, voice edged with urgency, “Slow down.”

But you didn’t. You twisted in his grip, eyes locked on the medbay doors just ahead. Your boots skidded on the tile as you tried to wrench free.

“I have to be with her-”

Bucky stepped in from the left, cutting off your path completely, “You’re next,” he said, voice low but unmoving, “You don’t look good, Y/N.”

“I don’t care,” you protested, throat tightening.

“You need to let the doctors take a look at you,” Bob murmured behind her, voice low and soft, “You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine!” You snapped, louder than you meant to.

Then your knees dipped.

Bob stepped in closer, bracing you as gently as he could, “Okay, hey- hey. I’ve got you. Just breathe for a second.”

“You’re not fine ,” Bucky said quietly, “You’re disoriented, bleeding, and barely staying on your feet.”

You closed your eyes tight, forehead pressing into Bob’s shoulder as the hall tilted sideways. Your legs felt too far away, and your heart wouldn’t slow down.

“I don’t want to leave her,” you whispered.

Bob pressed a kiss to your uninjured temple, “You’re not leaving her, honey. You’re letting someone help you, so you don’t end up needing that hospital bed too.”

You hesitated, then looked up at Bucky, eyes brimming with tears.

“Promise me,” you whispered, “You’ll stay with her.”

“Swear it,” Bucky said, firm and sure.

Bob gently brushed the hair off your cheek, “And I’m not leaving you either.”

Your shoulders sagged, finally giving out.

“Okay,” you breathed, “Okay. Just please, hurry.”

“We will,” Bob murmured, adjusting his hold as he started guiding you back, “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you patched up.”

——————

The moment the med team cleared you (mild concussion, bruised ribs, no internal bleeding) you were already halfway out of the room.

You didn’t wait for the nurse to finish her sentence. You slid off the exam table and made it three steps toward the door, heart pounding and legs ready to sprint.

But Bob was faster.

He stepped in front of you just as you reached the hallway, one hand gently pressing to your shoulder, the other hovering at your waist in case you stumbled.

“Easy,” he said softly, but firmly, “You still look like you might tip over.”

“I have to see her,” you said, voice hoarse, “I’ve waited long enough.”

“I know,” Bob murmured, gaze searching yours, “And you’re going to. But not if you faceplant in the hallway trying to run there.”

You faltered, chest tight, the instinct to bolt still coiled beneath your ribs like a spring.

Bob softened, “Walk with me. Please.”

Your shoulders dropped, groaning in annoyance as you agree, “This whole concussion thing sucks ass.”

That elicited a chuckle from him as he guided you down the hall to Yelena’s room, “I could always grab one of the wheel chairs. Strap you in, blanket over your lap, maybe even a juice box. Really complete the whole ‘I’m severely concussed’ look.”

That earned him a light slap to the shoulder and a correction of being “mildly” concussed, the air feeling lighter for the first time in a few hours. That was, until you reached the recovery room.

Yelena was still out cold, pale and bandaged, but breathing steadily.

Bucky stood up from the bedside chair, gesturing for you to take his place. You took him up on that, and dropped into the seat beside her. You were curled in on yourself, one arm hugging your middle, and the other resting lightly on the edge of the bed. Bucky stood in the doorway, watching quietly.

“She’s okay,” Bob whispered again, laying a hand on your shoulder.

You nodded, chewing on your your bottom lip nervously. You believed him, but that didn’t mean you were going anywhere.

——————

Four more hours passed, and you didn’t move.

Not when the nurse came in to check vitals. Not when Bob quietly tried to coax you into eating something. Not when Bucky mumbled that you should at least stretch your legs or, “your spine’s gonna fuse to that chair.”

You barely blinked, eyes fixed on Yelena’s still face. Her head was wrapped in bandages now, and you imagined the gash in her side was the same way under the gown. An IV line fed fluids back into her, and the color just was just barely returning to her cheeks. But she hadn’t moved.

So you stayed.

Bob stayed too, right beside you in the other chair, one knee bouncing anxiously. Bucky leaned against the far wall with his arms crossed, chewing silently on the inside of his cheek, watching you more than her.

The other’s were coming and going, not wanting to crowd the room, but still wanting to make sure Yelena was alright.

Alexei didn’t stay long. Couldn’t stay long. Even though he knew she would be alright, he couldn’t bare to see his daughter like that. He left quickly, mumbling something about, “-preparing her favorite soup for when she wakes.”

Now the room was quiet and still, and you were trying your hardest to keep your eyes open.

Then, without warning, Yelena stirred.

It was subtle; a twitch of her fingers, the barest shift in her brow, but it might as well have been an earthquake.

You straightened so fast you startled Bob, and your breath caught in your throat, hand reaching for hers instinctively.

She groaned softly, her face scrunching. Her lips parted, dry and chapped, and her eyelids cracked open just the tiniest bit.

Her voice came out rough and low, “I told you so.”

You blinked, “What?”

“You jinxed it”

Bucky snorted from across the room, “Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

You let out a soft, watery laugh and covered your mouth with your hand. The sound surprised even you, half-sob, half-relief.

Bob chuckled under his breath, “She’s awake five seconds and already picking a fight.”

Yelena’s mouth twitched into the faintest, sleepy smirk, “Felt wrong to leave you unsupervised.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, smiling through the sting in your eyes, “I should’ve left you under that pile of rubble.”

Yelena opened her eyes a little more, focusing on you slowly, “You didn’t?”

“Unfortunately,” you muttered, voice tight with affection.

She didn’t comment further, but her lips twitched upward for just a moment. She looked around the room with exaggerated slowness, “Ugh. Medbay. Lame.”

“You almost died,” you said pointedly.

“Keyword there is almost,” she croaked, “I am not so easy to kill Дорогая.”

A fond smile reached your lips, glad for her to finally be back, “You’ve been unconscious for hours.”

“Yeah, well… I needed the nap.”

Bob raised an eyebrow, “You almost gave her a panic attack.”

“She did panic,” Bucky said, now walking over with a smirk, “Went full ‘deer in headlights.’ Even tried to assist with field surgery in the jet while she could barely stand.”

Your mouth dropped open, “Okay well-”

Bob leaned in slightly from his spot beside the bed, his voice low but laced with just enough dry humor to soften the reprimand, “You also almost collapsed. Twice. And then proceeded to argue with me, Bucky, and the doctor, about how you were ‘fine’ while bleeding from the head.”

You winced a little at the reminder.

“I didn’t argue…”

Bob raised his brows, unimpressed, and Yelena blinked at you slowly, like her brain was still buffering.

“You’re hurt?” she asked, her tone shifting just slightly; still scratchy, still dry, but gentler now. Concern lingered behind her tired eyes.

You hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod, “Concussion. Couple bruised ribs.”

She stared for a second longer, processing.

Then, “You absolute dumbass.”

You laughed, relieved at the familiar edge in her voice, “Oh come on.”

“You dragged my unconscious body through a half-collapsed hallway while you were concussed and barely standing?”

“…Yes?” You deadpanned, with an attitude that said, and I would do it again.

Bucky gave you a pointed look, “She also refused help, wouldn’t sit down, forgot how breathing worked…”

“Okay,” you mumbled, holding up a hand, “Everyone here is being a little dramatic.”

Yelena’s voice was a raspy mutter, “You’re like a baby duck with a death wish,” she gave a tiny shrug, or tried to, but winced halfway through, “All wobbly and confused, just waddling into danger.”

You let out a shaky laugh, pressing your palm to your face, “That is… the most insulting and adorable thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Bob, still hovering nearby, smirked, “Honestly? She’s not wrong.”

You turned to him, offended, “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am,” he said, already grinning, “That’s why I helped stop the baby duck from passing out on the jet.”

You didn’t even try to fight the grin that crept its way to your face.

She rolled her eyes, but the concern was still there in the tight way she held your hand, “I missed being conscious, not being able to mock you was really boring.”

“Shut up!”

Bob smirked at that, but gently laid a hand on your shoulder, “Mock her later. She’s got about fifteen minutes of energy left before I physically carry her to bed.”

Bucky cleared his throat, “Speaking of that, I’m getting some sleep.”

You looked up, “You alright?”

He gave a small nod, eyes steady on the two of you, “You’re both still breathing. That’s enough for me tonight.”

His tone was quiet, but the weight behind it said everything he didn’t. Relief, worry, care. All packed into that single sentence. Yelena tilted her head slightly, “Wow. That was almost… sweet.”

You smiled, “A little poetic, even.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at both of you, deadpan, “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, we won’t,” Yelena replied, grinning through the soreness, “Wouldn’t want you pulling a hip trying to express feelings.”

You bit back a laugh, and he sighed dramatically, shaking his head as he walked to the door, “Every time I try to be nice…”

“Night Bucky,” the three of you said in unison, still smiling.

He glanced back one last time, “Proud of you. Both of you.”

Then he was gone, leaving the room a little quieter but warmer. The moment he disappeared through the medbay doors, Bob turned back to you with that knowing look; part patient, part amused, all gentle concern.

“Alright, duckling,” he murmured, brushing his fingers lightly over your temple where the bandages still sat, “Time to sleep before you collapse in this chair and I have to explain to the nurses why you’re drooling on the floor.”

You rolled your eyes, too tired to come up with anything clever, “You are obsessed with dragging me places.”

He grinned, “Only when you’re too stubborn to go on your own.”

With a little help, you stood. Your legs felt unsteady, and you leaned into him without thinking, letting his arm wrap around your waist, solid and steady. You glanced down at Yelena, your smile fading a bit.

She was still propped up a little, eyes half-lidded, but awake enough to catch the shift in your demeanor, “I’m fine,” she said. “Go.”

You hesitated, gaze flicking to the chair beside her bed, “Do you want someone to stay with you?”

Yelena snorted softly, “What, you think I’m scared of the dark now?”

You gave her a sheepish smile.

“I’m okay,” she assured, her voice softer this time,“I’m sure the nurses will be in and out. They love to bother me. Go let Bob hover over you for a while. He lives for it.”

“I do,” Bob said, not even pretending to deny it.

Yelena looked over at him, “If she doesn’t sleep at least six straight hours, lock her in her room.”

He gave a short nod, “Already planning on it.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, leaning down to gently squeeze her hand one last time, “Don’t scare me like that ever again.”

“No promises,” Yelena muttered, smirking, but then her features softened, “Thank you. For saving me. For staying.”

You smiled again, but it felt a little heavier this time, more vulnerable, “Always.”

Yelena’s voice was quiet now, sleepy, “Goodnight, little duck.”

“Goodnight, Lena.”

Bob gave her a two-finger salute, then gently turned you toward the door, his hand warm and steady on your back.

And as you let him lead you down the dim corridor back to the living space section of the tower, you felt that weight in your chest finally start to ease; not gone, but softer. Safer.

Because she was okay.

And so were you.

[itsme-imtherealone]

Waiter! Waiter! More My-Favorite-Character-Having-A-Panic-Attack please!!

[kirain]

Part seventeen of my appreciation protect.

@svanha A fic based on their wonderful art piece here. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

Emmrich woke with a start.

His breath hitched, his chest tight, ribs squeezing in on his lungs like iron bands. Sweat slicked his skin, the dampness cooling as it met the open air. He sat up too fast, his shoulder thudding against the wall with a dull, aching force. His heart pounded, a frantic rhythm that refused to slow, and his hand—shaking, clammy—clutched at his chest as if he could physically hold himself together.

Another nightmare.

Another damn nightmare.

He had dreamed of death again. Of slipping into nothingness, of vanishing from the world without a trace. He had seen himself alone—dying in some forgotten corner, his name lost to the wind, his body left to rot where it fell. He had seen the world move on without him, had felt the gut-wrenching terror of being erased, of missing out on everything and leaving nothing behind.

It clung to him, this fear, more than any tragic memory or wound ever had. He could fight an enemy, could take a sword to the abdomen and grit through the pain. But this? This was beyond him. This was an abyss opening beneath his feet, and no matter how hard he fought to breathe, it only yawned wider, threatening to swallow him whole.

With his other hand, he pressed his knuckles to his lips, trying to muffle the uneven sound of his breaths. Too fast. Too shallow. He knew this feeling—he'd lived with it long enough to name it—but knowing didn't make it easier.

His muscles locked, chest heaving. Breathe. Just breathe. But the command was distant, unreachable through the static in his head. His vision blurred at the edges, the shadows of his room stretching and closing in.

Then, a touch—warm, tender. A hand against his back. Emmrich gasped, barely aware of the strangled noise that left him. But the touch didn't waver, didn't retreat. Soft fingers traced a slow, grounding path along his spine, steady and familiar.

"Emmrich," a voice whispered, like a beacon piercing the haze.

Zea.

He'd forgotten—he wasn't alone.

"I—" He tried to speak, but his throat collapsed.

"You're safe," she said, shifting closer. "You're alive. You're here. With me."

At first, the words didn't reach him. Dread overwhelmed him, the claws of his nightmare still raking through his mind. But her touch—her presence—was an anchor.

"Can you breathe with me?" she asked, her voice as gentle as the hand on his back.

He clenched his jaw, teeth gritted. He couldn't—he didn't know how.

"Try," she urged, her breath guiding. "In with me, out with me. One. two. three."

Her fingers moved in time with his efforts, rubbing small, soothing circles into his skin. He tried to follow her. He failed. Tried again. His chest still ached, breath still too quick—but her pace didn't falter, her patience unparalleled. She counted once more, her lips brushing against his temple.

"In... and out. Just like that. You're doing well, Emmrich."

Finally, he heard her—not just the sound of her voice, but the meaning beneath it. He drew in a ragged breath. Then another, his lungs straining, but trying all the same.

Eventually, the grip that choked him loosened, just a little. His hand dropped from his face, his fingers curling into his lap. He hadn't recovered. Not fully. But he was no longer drowning.

"There you go," Zea said, her arms slipping around him, pulling him close.

He surrendered to her embrace at once, too drained to resist. But more than exhaustion—it was need. A need for her, for the comfort only she could provide. As his pulse began to ease, a helpless whimper escaped him.

"I'm sorry..." he wept, shuddering like fabric splitting at the seams.

"Shhh. I've got you," Zea hushed, her fingers combing through his matted hair. "You're not alone, Emmrich. You never will be."

His breath caught.

How many times had he feared just that? How many times had he convinced himself that, in the end, he would have nothing and no one? No one would miss him. No one would grieve. That had become his truth.

But here—now—Zea's arms proved otherwise. She held him like she was a part of him, as if she'd gladly spend the rest of her life in that bed, rocking him back and forth.

"I've got you," she repeated, over and over like a mantra. "I've got you."

After a while, Emmrich found his voice, remembered how to speak. He felt her, grasped at her gown.

"Thank you," he wheezed.

Zea pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, her sky-blue eyes drawing him to her gaze. Then she kissed him—gentle, deep. Not a demand, but a reassurance. A gift, freely given, expecting nothing in return.

Emmrich sank into it, the tension bleeding from his body as her lips pressed against his own. He wasn't used to it—this devotion, this compassion. It was indescribable, a solace so pervasive he could scarcely believe it was real.

She had pulled him back from the darkness.

"Sleep," she murmured when they parted, her thumb sweeping over his cheek. "I'll be here when you wake."

Tonight, the horrors that so often plagued him would not prevail—and for the first time in ages, Emmrich wasn't afraid to close his eyes.

-----

Morning came suddenly, but not cruelly. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting golden lines across the bedsheets. The room was still. Peaceful. The kind of silence that felt sacred, as though the world itself had paused to allow this one, fragile moment to linger.

Slowly, Emmrich opened his eyes, lids heavy with sleep—and the shame of the night before. For a moment, his heart was already bracing for the hurt: that familiar emptiness beside him, the imprint of someone who'd left quietly in the night.

But Zea was still there, nestled close, her arms wrapped tightly around his, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. Her blonde hair spilled over the pillow in soft waves, and her unconscious breaths seemed to flow not for her own sake, but his.

She hadn't left.

She hadn't left.

Emmrich blinked, hardly daring to move—and the tremor that followed had nothing to do with fear. Hesitantly, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind the delicate curve of her ear.

Zea. The woman who had held him through the storm, who never flinched at the worst of him. No man or woman had ever lasted this long. They'd tried—some of them, anyway—but the night terrors always chased them off. The screams, the panic, the way he'd wake with tears he hadn't meant to shed.

He'd apologised, again and again, made excuses, offered everything he could think of. He'd begged, pleaded, sobbed.

And they'd all left.

But not Zea. She clung to him even now.

"Darling..."

His throat tightened with the weight of unspoken gratitude, and the sharp sting of guilt. Surely he'd scared her, ruined her night. She was so kind to indulge him, but he wondered how long it would last.

How many nights would she endure these childish outbursts from a grown man?

"Forgive me."

He leaned down, pressing a feather-light kiss to her forehead. Then, careful not to disturb her, he slipped from the bed.

-----

Nearly an hour had passed before Zea stirred, stretching with feline grace and a soft, elegant yawn. Her arms reached above her head before folding back, her lashes fluttering open.

And there he was.

Emmrich stood nearby, a tray balanced in his hands. His shirt hung loose and wrinkled from being hastily pulled on, and his hair was still mussed from sleep, a few unruly strands falling across his brow. But it was his eyes—fervent, adoring—that truly woke her.

"Good morning," he said, the corners of his mouth lifting in a tired but sincere smile. "I was hoping you'd be up by the time I finished. I've brought you something."

As he approached, Zea pushed herself upright, her back propped against the pillows.

"What's this?" she asked, staring at the tray as he carefully set it over her lap.

"Breakfast in bed," he replied simply, as if it wasn't the most romantic gesture she'd ever received.

"Emmrich, you're so sweet," she giggled, peering down at the spread.

Freshly toasted sourdough slices rested beside a small ramekin of butter and a jar of honey. Soft cheese, fig slices, and roasted mushrooms were arranged artfully around a handful of olives and pickled vegetables. There was a halved boiled egg, a dish of sautéed greens, and a little side bowl of cool cherry tomatoes that glistened in the morning light. Beside it all, a mug of steaming tea towered over everything, the fragrance divine.

"Emmrich," Zea drooled, practically bouncing in place, "this looks delicious!"

"Oh?" The older man let out a breath of relief, as if he'd expected her to be disappointed. "I'm delighted you think so, my dear."

She picked up a piece of toast, layered some butter and vegetables on top, and took a bite, all while watching him with amused affection as he sat beside her on the edge of the bed. But as she chewed, she noticed his smile fade, his gaze dropping to his hands.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, his voice tinged with regret.

Zea stopped mid-bite. "For what?"

"For waking you last night. For... all of it."

She swallowed, set the toast down, and reached out, her fingers curling gently around his hand. "Don't ever apologise for that," she said firmly. "Ever."

He didn't look up. "But..."

"If you start apologising, then I'll have to start apologising."

His eyes flicked to her, his expression creased with confusion. "For what?"

"For venting to you," she said with a shrug. "Ceaselessly."

"What? No!" He shook his head, dismayed by her self-deprecation. "Darling, that isn't—!"

"Don't say it's not the same. I know I've cut into your nights many a time with my troubles."

"No, Zea, please..." Emmrich stressed, desperate to change her mind. "I choose to listen when you're struggling. I want to. You don't choose to be woken by my incessant—"

"Yes, I do," she interrupted. "Every night I lie beside you, I do it knowing it's a possibility. I'm not bothered by it."

Emmrich winced, heat rising to his neck. "You don't... but I—"

Zea smirked. She'd never seen him so flustered, so speechless—and she hoped he'd finally realise how harsh he was being with himself. As he fumbled for a response, she let her gaze drift back to the tray, eager to dive back into his delectable cookery—until a thought crossed her mind, and her eyes narrowed.

"Wait..." she said, her tone teasing. "Is this part of the apology?"

Emmrich quivered, his lips parting, then closing again. For a moment, he looked like he might retreat—until he sighed, his shoulders sinking.

"It's both," he confessed. "An apology... and a thank you."

Zea frowned.

"I'm sorry!" he cried. "I was worried you'd—!"

Before he could spiral further, she grabbed a cherry tomato and pressed it to his mouth. A faint pressure—enough to make it burst with a squish, juice smearing across his lips. As the usually timid elf laughed, Emmrich reeled back slightly, his eyes wide.

"Zea?" he spluttered.

"You silly, silly man," she whispered. "My silly man. My heart."

He froze, stunned into silence.

"You don't have to thank me or apologise." She leaned closer, eyes shining with that calm, unwavering certainty that had pulled him through the night. "You just have to know that I love you. I'm happy to be here for you... just as you are for me. You've given me so much, Emmrich. So please, don't think you're a burden."

The older man felt a tingle in his soul, his cheeks flaring. That she desired him was a miracle in itself—but to remain undaunted by his fits? He couldn't fathom how he'd gotten so lucky.

"What have I... possibly given you?" he asked, and it pained her that he didn't know.

"A home."

Emmrich's breath caught, tears welling in his eyes. But before he could speak, before a single tear could fall, Zea grabbed the collar of his shirt and tugged him forward. Their faces hovered mere inches apart, their breaths mingling.

"Let me clean you up," she purred.

Then her lips met his—playful, sensual. She grazed the corners first, licking up the beads of tomato juice with slow swipes of her tongue.

"Dar—mmm," Emmrich moaned, his hands instinctively clutching her arms.

She deepened the kiss, mindful of the tray, and Emmrich melted into her, consumed by the taste of her, the warmth of her, the love that poured from her touch like sunlight breaking through the clouds. And as his tongue slid against hers, he knew—without doubt or distress—that she was different.

She was the one who would stay.

[scribz-ag24]

I've recently seen again a post talking about the Sableye and Dusknoir's relationship so i'd like to put my two cents in the discussion, for I love screaming into the void about PMD. (this isnt meant to discourage any other interpretations btw this is just my take on theirs and Dusknoir's relationship, bc I think they're very fun characters and I am very glad the game actually gives these minions a bit of relevance in se5).

Tbh I don't buy that Dusknoir treats the Sableye nicely, at least not out of kindness. I don't think he's a tyrant or inexplicably mean, of course, and I think his minions ADORE him, but i also believe that doesn't mean he's nice to them, sth that i consider meaningful for their character arcs.

Throughout the entire game he's exclusively giving them orders, in se5 he concocts a plan that involves thrashing them MULTIPLE times (he's lucky Grovyle isn't one to try and kill enemies in battle ig), and the cherry on top is that the first time we see him being fully genuine he does this:

(yes, he is in turmoil in here, but there's not a single thing implying that 1. this is an unusual response towards the sablye, 2. dusknoir feels bad for it at some point or is surprised at himself, 3. this has any impact in the sableye at all. You can argue these reactions happen off screen and we don't see them, they don't happen bc they have pressing matters to attend to or they happen after they return to life, and that's perfectly valid, but i'm sticking with what the game shows us, here.)

I must say, though, the fact that the Sableye, despite having been almost mindless pokémon up to now, STAND UP TO AND ATTACK Primal Dialga for their boss and even try to look after him despite him ordering them to check on Grovyle and Celebi first is SO important to me. they are goons to the bone and they love that scheming ghost so much.

My own view is that Dusknoir is generally polite to them (you wouldn't randomly break your own revolver or weapon without any reason, would you?), but is quicker to get mean with them than with people he doesn't know or he is seeking to manipulate. He doesn't care about their behaviour as long as they get the job done, which is why I think the anime thing of the Sableye climbing onto his shoulder isn't that remarkable, rather it's a very cute moment, one that is showing how they've been working together for long and how their size difference affects their interactions, but it is not necessarily conveying an affectionate bond (this is a bit random, but it reminds me of Disney's Jafar with Iago lmao. throw your pet sableye at your enemies so they mock them and then return to your shoulder). Additionally, Dusknoir letting the Sableye onto his shoulder is probably as close as we are gonna get to a villain turning around in his chair while petting a cat in PMD lol.

[this isn't meant to be a one-to-one comparison, it's just a detail i find cute and shows that this gesture can have multiple interpretations, with none being the only right one]

Leaving that aside, I hesitate to claim Dusknoir trusts his Sableye as allies, as Grovyle makes a point in the main story of how the Sableye (your Sableye, he says, as if objectifying them; not friends, but tools, weapons at Dusknoir's disposal) are lacking compared to the way hero/partner/grovyle support one another (power of friendship and hidden information babyyyy). The Sableye are used to Dusknoir's way of doing things, though, I'm sure. They know what happens when he's displeased, after all.

I think, most of all, the Sableye are meant to look disposable: they are 6 identical pokémon that almost act like a hivemind, and we are not supposed to think at all about how we may hurt them in battle any more than we do with the angry Manectric pack or random dungeon pokémon. This, I believe, is why the game has them stand up against Dialga and gives them unique dialogue at the end of se5. They're meant to show their inner shine, just as Dusknoir managed to do. They suddenly gain an individuality they had never shown while they were working to maintain the dark future.

Where they abandoned Dusknoir in the Old Ruins, now Grovyle has motivated them to look for their dignity and fight for a better world, and that starts with protecting their leader from Primal Dialga's rampage, and supporting his new objective and allies in their quest to save the future. In their own small way, they've also grown as characters throughout SE5.

I believe that, overall, Dusknoir saw the Sableye as tools, but thanks to their growth and clear care for him, there's a possibility he might start to see them (and by extension other pokémon) in a more genuine, less pragmatic / objectifying way in the future. Now that Dusknoir has the chance to live a fulfilling life, he may learn to care for others without surrounding himself by so many walls. If anything, I think their future is quite bright. Not that the Sableye would mind if he still thrashed them around, though lol, they're clearly not bothered much by it (special episode 0 had a great depiction of the sableye imo, you can check that romhack if you haven't yet).

In conclusion, look at these little guys who adore their can-get-mean-but-is-mostly-polite boss and probably have a body count but now are good, they're so cute:

[ldysmfrst]

Welcome to Incomplete's Master List! The Taglist is OPEN for this story.

This is an OT8 x Plus Sized/Chubby Reader story. The story will have Mature Scenes. The chapters with these adult themes will have (M) in the chapter name, so please 18+ readers only. Within the chapters, at the start and end of the Mature scene will be the following banner, if you want to skip them.

The world-famous K-pop group Ateez earned its way to Fame. Once they found each other, they became bonded soulmates. They figured everything was complete with the 8 of them, and they could share their passion for music with the world. What happens when a new pull comes during their Towards The Light World Tour? Does 8 really make 1?

Chapter 1 - A Pull to Where?

Seonghwa feels like something has been missing for a while. Y/n feels like she is leaving something behind.

Chapter 2 - A Soulmate in Los Angeles

Revelations within Ateez bring them together for the hunt to find their missing soulmate. Meanwhile, Y/n struggles with thinking she has gone into the land of Delulu.

Chapter 3 - Something is Wrong...

Ateez finally finds y/n, but it isn't the happy-go-lucky meet-cute anyone was expecting.

Chapter 4 - 8 Makes 1 Team, But 9 Makes...

Y/n dark past is revealed. It's time for all of Ateez to get on board and show y/n what it means to them, or step off and leave her alone.

As a paid member of my Patreon, you can read extra spicy smutty scenes and additional content and have early release benefits for each chapter!

TO BE CONTINUED...

Reader Asks

Additional Content

Patreon Writing Style Poll Results

[getsteddiewithit]

steve uses the non-verbal safeword.

CW: slight NSFW, panic/anxiety attack, harmful stims (scratching self)

“tap three times on me if you ever can’t speak and wanna stop, okay?”

yes, steve had remembered those words. all throughout the times they had sex, he remembered those words. but it didn’t make them any less scary.

the thought of ever needing to stop in the middle of a scene made his palms sweat. of course he and eddie trusted each other; knew that if the other was in trouble and needed to stop, they’d completely understand. no judging whatsoever.

but still… absolutely needing to stop and move on made him so anxious. deep down he didn’t want to be a disappointment. he didn’t want eddie upset.

“baby, what’s your color?” eddie murmured to him, rubbing his shoulders and slowing his rhythm. steve did not reply, shakily breathing into the pillow and tearing up.

“steve, color?” he asked, louder, and more firm. yet he could not bring himself to talk. his mind went to the other times in previous relationships, where he felt like this exactly, and they didn’t even think to check in. and he couldn’t bring himself to stop them.

he could feel eddie shift, basically ready to pull out, before he asked again, “steven.”

oh. his full name. eddie only used it when he was deadly serious. this seemed to snap him out of his haze, and he shakily reached behind him and found somewhere on his body to tap.

one. two. three soft and hesitant taps, just like eddie told him to do months ago.

“red,” eddie mumbled to himself, worried, and pulling out immediately. he flipped steve over, pulling him close and cupping his tear-stained cheeks.

“what’s wrong? what can i do?” he asked softly, searching his eyes.

“i- i don’t know,” he choked out, a heavy sob leaving his lips before gulping down air he felt like was leaving his body too fast.

“that’s okay, just breathe. breathe, steve, okay? c’mere,” he pulled him into his lap, his head in his neck as he continued to cry. eddie ran his fingers through his hair, and steve clutched onto him tight.

“deep and slow breaths,” he told him, and steve was doing the opposite. breathing way too fast and inhaling far too much, to the point his chest and stomach hurt and he began to feel dizzy.

“steven, listen to me,” there it was again, the full name, which brought him somewhat back to his senses, “deep, slow breaths. do it with me.”

and he tried. he breathed with eddie, taking in some air and blowing it out too fast before inhaling sharply again; coughing and sobbing.

“there, that’s it. it’s okay baby, just try again.”

steve only wanted to cry more. of course eddie was congratulating him even after he didn’t even do it.

“again,” he told him, beginning to inhale slowly, holding it, and exhaling slowly. steve followed, better this time, but still failing.

“i- i can’t,” he choked out.

“yes you can, do it with me,” he said, inhaling and exhaling again. steve followed, his hand going to his forearm, clawing to try and ground himself more.

“no,” eddie caught his arm, pulling it away and bringing it up to his chest, “do you remember what your therapist said?”

“he said,” he paused, his breath catching in his throat as he cried, “to find a different way to ground myself.”

“correct. now, just feel my heart. i’m right here, steve. i’m not leaving. try and match your heartbeat to mine,”

steve kept his hand flat against eddie’s chest, then did the same for himself. he could feel how fast his heart was going versus eddie’s, and it made him uncomfortable.

the other rubbed his back, and kept one hand running through his hair, breathing slow and deep and watched as steve tried to do the same.

“good job,” he praised, kissing his cheek. the pair’s breathing pattern was now the same, and steve was no longer crying. steve nodded as thanks, crawling off eddie’s lap and under the blankets, curling up. eddie stood to put his underwear and sweats back on, only to sit back down on the bed and run his fingers through steve’s hair again.

“do you want to talk about it?”

steve sighed shakily and shrugged, wiping his red cheeks.

“just started thinking,” he mumbled.

“about?”

“things in previous relationships. and then i started feeling like i was crawling in my own skin, and i started to panic,”

“what about your previous relationships?” he questioned, only curiously, with no mean intent.

steve let out a quick exhale before sitting up, “how i could never really say no, i guess? i know it doesn’t matter now. i trust you. and i started feeling overwhelmed in the first place, so i started thinking about the safe word, and how you told me to say ‘red’ or tap you three times. but it just made me anxious. i knew i needed to stop but i didn’t want to upset you in the process,”

“you could never upset me over something like that, steve, okay? that’s the point of the taps and the system we have. you know your limits, and in case they’re ever pushed, you do or say so. i’m so proud of you for using it,”

eddie pulled steve in for a hug, rubbing his back softly. steve’s heart kind of broke. here he was, in his boyfriend’s arms starting to cry again because he said he was proud of him. proud of him for something as simple as saying no, and stop. something he never thought he could do; something he was taught was wrong, and his boyfriend was praising him for it.

“i’m proud of you,” he repeated, to which steve only cried harder, nodding in his shoulder as thanks and sniffling.

he pulled back, laying down and wiping his face again.

“i’m gonna go bring you some water and some easy food to eat, okay? just stay there,” he smiled, getting up and heading to the kitchen.

steve smiled softly, getting comfortable under the warm blankets and inhaling the familiar scent of gain and eddie’s cheap cologne.

and he thanked the universe for a boyfriend that was actually a decent human being.

[thefawnfallacy]

You don’t have to like sebaciel or the many undertones it presents in the series but it’s actually getting to the point where insistent ignorance of the sexual nature Ciel is presented in can be dangerous. Fiction does not exist on a 1:1 scale with reality but just using this fictitious scenario of Ciel being sexualised (by Yana herself) while having a panic/asthma attack and it being called “not actually sexual” or sebaciel fans being called “delusional” when pointing out the erotic nature of, not just this, but the many instances in which the viewer is meant to see Ciel in a sensual manner, is concerning.

You should be able to identify a sexual situation, even if it’s a situation in which the things happening are not inherently sexual. One of the main components of grooming is that is does not start out sexual, there’s a buildup to that in which the groundwork has already been laid. I’ll say it again, you should be able to identify when something sexual is happening without it being inherently sexual.

Yes, Ciel is repeatedly sexualised canonically, it is not being used to mock shippers, he simply exists in a very erotic manner in many situations using a variety of different ways to depict it, most commonly being flower language. No, you are not “morally correct” for not enjoying it, you just find it uncomfortable or triggering and that’s fine. Yes, you should be able to see that he’s being sexualised because he’s fake and if you cannot see it then there’s a chance of not being able to see this in real life, whether it be a friend, a child in your care, or even yourself.

Not being able to identify the sexual nature a character can be presented in is not a good thing. It doesn’t mean you “aren’t a porn addict”, it doesn’t mean you “aren’t a bad person” and it certainly doesn’t mean you are “not a pedophile, like those shippers are”. It means you cannot spot the difference between a bad fake relationship and a bad real relationship.

Stop giving a damn about fictional characters and start giving a damn about yourself.

[bunny-lovers]

If you have anxiety or panic attacks, your f/o will absolutely learn how to best comfort you.

Whether that means holding you close, verbally assuring you that everything is okay, or just giving you some time and space alone, your f/o loves you and will do whatever you need them to to help you feel better.

proship/comship/neutral DNI

[jedoggo]

I just read experiment 21 a couple of days ago. I am going to go bawl my eye sockets out in a corner brb 💗💗

Original meme btw

[childrenofcain-if]

Thinking about how when MC tells C that they have beautiful eyes they feel that they are shoved underwater, everything fading away and those are the only words they can hear and how D and MC are literally underwater when D is totally struck by MC's beauty, made aware of their presence and how their existence makes D feel that the world is less boring. About how for C being underwater is a disarming force but for D it is awareness, realisation. Can't get these two scenes out of my head.

aj, you cooked an entire meal here and i approve 😋

C is so emotionally stunted because of their past that they have a hard time processing what exactly they’re feeling towards the MC and attribute everything into a neat little category of ‘competitiveness with bouts of hate’. for now, they’d rather believe that they utterly resent MC’s presence than entertain the possibility that it might be a softer emotion—a rose flower that they’ve mistaken for solely its thorns.

D, on the other hand, is well-aware of the emotions and are just cocky enough to think that it won’t progress past a simple physical attraction. they can be way more self-destructive than C, because at least the latter would slow down and begrudgingly accept it at some point with a little prodding from the MC. D will just spiral and run like they always have when things get serious.

i’ll try not to make it overly angsty but the ride ahead is about to be super bumpy with a lot of wrong turns 😞

[houpss]

Hurt

Lily had a panic attack during her performance

🧊–return to masterlist ¡! ✥

First person narration, angst, panic attacks, tears.

This was an important performance, SKZ prepared very carefully.I've been preparing for so long, I wanted to be the best for STAY, I wanted to be proud of me! It was a big award where we wanted to receive a big award, Daesang. The boys were tense, they did everything professionally that was needed. The performance was supposed to be with the song "MEGAVERSE" and everything turned out perfectly.

"What are our lovely lady thinking about?" Minho jokingly asked, patting me on the back as I was warming up in front of the studio mirror.

"I'm worried, Ho, I want to show YOU that I deserve to be a part of Stray kids." I bit my lip and shook my body before turning to Minho in a half turn.

"You are an integral part of us, and whoever disagrees with this goes fuck themselves," Minho said briefly, but very accurately. Lily laughed at his words

"What are you laughing at, it's time for us to go"

"And where are the others?"

"Seungmin and Changbin are now buying water for everyone, Chan is discussing some points with staff, and everyone else is waiting in the car. Come on,Bear...You're too slow"

I left with Minho, the atmosphere was quite tense and everyone felt it. We sat down in the car:I was sitting next to Felix, who was taking new selfies for Bubble and we took a selfie together; Jeongin had already fallen asleep on Chan's shoulder, Changbin and Hyunjin were jokingly arguing; Seungmin was listening to music on headphones, and Jison and Minho were pestering each other. Lily exhaled and whispered to Felix, "I'm so worried, freckle..as if I don't have the right to make mistakes."

"Oh... Lily..this is absolutely normal, our work anticipates constant stress. Firstly, you are an ordinary living person and life without mistakes is impossible, STAY will love you any, like other Members, you will not get worse from this," Felix said with a smile and took Lily's hand in his, he understood how important support is to her now.

Some fans literally used the phrase "I'm ot8, but Lily..."

I put my head on Felix's shoulder, and he squeezed my hand harder.

We arrived at the filming location, and staff began to prepare us. I had bright makeup done with black shaded arrows, blue lenses were put on and the tone of my face was adjusted so that it shone aesthetically, perfectly. My dyed burgundy hair was twisted into a lot of curls, and my clothes were a rather strict version, an earpiece was hooked on my ear.The boys were having fun and laughing, of course it was loud and noisy in the SKZ Dressing Room...I tried to join in their conversation, but I just made it worse for myself.I don't belong here.I looked at myself in the mirror, my throat constricted, I just whispered to myself:"a living doll." I don't want to be here, I have to be somewhere else. Why such thoughts?The first signs of anxiety.

Chan noticed my condition and gently patted me on the shoulder: "Princess,is everything okay?".I'm scared."Chan frowned and took me to the nearest couch so the boys wouldn't see them.He stroked her hands with his fingers, his lips briefly kissed her forehead so as not to erase the tone from her face."My beautiful one, you are perfect and everything will go well, you make the STAY and boys so happy. You'll like this performance," Chan patted his back and gave a bottle of water in his hands, "And after the award we'll go home and watch some movie, okay?"

I nodded and hugged him briefly, my lips were frozen: "Thank you, my love"

It was time to go on stage, I gave the boys a bright smile and we went on stage to the noisy STAY, it became dark.The spotlight fell on me, and I took a deep breath, ready to dive into the dance. But suddenly my heart started pounding wildly, pounding loudly in my chest, I'm suffocating again. The light became blinding, the sounds became unbearable, and the air around me became suffocating. My vision was blurred, and my hands were shaking uncontrollably. Tears welled up in my eyes, I want to cry so much, fear gripped me. I was engulfed by a powerful force that engulfed me, completely paralyzing me. Every muscle in my body was tense, and it was impossible to control the waves of panic that were spreading through me.I was engulfed by a powerful force that engulfed me, completely paralyzing me. Every muscle in my body was tense, and it was impossible to control the waves of panic that were spreading through me. I desperately tried to regain control, to suppress the panic, but it continued to intensify. The adrenaline coursing through my veins only fueled the fire of my anxiety. The performance I had been working so hard on was slipping away, disappearing into the darkness around me. The music deafened me, I looked around in confusion, it's time to perform. My body was moving, I didn't understand what I was doing, my body was working automatically.The reality of the situation has dissolved, and all that remains is an overwhelming sense of impending doom. Thoughts raced through my head, saying that I wasn't good enough, that I would embarrass myself in front of everyone. It was as if the weight of the world was pressing down on my shoulders, hampering my every move.It was my turn to play, my body continued to move gracefully at the same time sharply, singing broke from my lips, I tried my best to suppress tears and shaking in my body, just not now, please.During one of the elements of the choreography, I exchanged glances with Hyunjin when the scenes were going on at the frn while there was a part of Jison. Hyunjin nodded to me softly and squeezed my hand for a moment, and I smiled gratefully.With all my determination, I overcame my fear. The path ahead was uncertain, but I didn't let panic dictate my fate. The support of my boys and the love of art that fueled my passion became beacons of light leading me forward. "Welcome to the Stray Kids HOT MEGAVERSE" Felix and I dictated this last line together. The lights went out, and Staye's deafening support swept through the hall.When the last notes echoed through the hall, I was overcome by a sense of accomplishment. I faced my fears face to face without giving in to panic. It wasn't a flawless performance, but it was filled with sincere emotions and unwavering determination.The applause that followed was dedicated not only to the performance, but also to the resilience and strength it took to overcome my panic attack.I exhaled exhausted and we went down from the stage to the idol area. I bowed politely to my friends and colleagues. We sat down at our table, and under the table I felt Chan's supportive grip and Hyunjin's proud gaze.I squeezed Chan's fingers under the table.From that day on, I vowed never to let fear dictate my path. I knew that panic attacks were part of my personality, but they didn't define me. I will continue my work. I'm part of the Stray Kids. Hwang Lily will never fade away.

[kirain]

Part thirty of my appreciation project.

@tekstelart A fic based on their wonderful art piece here. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

The door burst open with a rattle.

Artemis looked up, startled, to see Emmrich stumble into her room like a man pursued. His eyes were wide, glazed with panic, and his face had gone sickly pale. He tripped on the edge of her rug and crashed to the floor, catching himself on trembling hands that buckled beneath him.

"Emmrich!" she cried, springing from her chair. Her braid loosened and fell apart as she rushed to his side, bright red hair tumbling around her shoulders.

She dropped to her knees. "Emmrich, what's wrong?"

His mouth opened, but no words formed—only a frantic whisper carried on shallow, gasping breaths.

"Die," he choked. "Going to... die!"

Artemis winced. She recognised the signs—the heaving breaths, the vacant stare. She'd seen him like this before, ripping apart at the seams—and she'd feared it would happen again.

Johanna. Her arrival had hit him like a battering ram—and now his mind was spiralling. He had warned her that Johanna's presence stirred up his old dread, but he'd hidden it too well.

She felt awful for not noticing sooner—before it came to this.

"Emmrich, look at me," she said softly, reaching for him. "You're alive. You hear me? You're alive. You're safe."

Emmrich shook his head, his body quaking like a foal standing for the first time, his pulse pounding, tears welling in his eyes. The sunset pouring orange light into the room only deepened his terror—searing his face like a mage condemned to the pyre.

"You!" he wheezed suddenly. His hand clawed blindly in her direction. "Y-you... you're... going to die!"

Artemis froze, her breath catching. Her heart lurched—not from fear, but from his pain. This was no longer just panic over his own life—it was hers. Her mortality.

The fragility of the woman he loved.

Her lips parted, throat clenching. Then, slowly, her expression shifted into something firmer. More determined.

"No," she said plainly. "No, Emmrich, I'm not going anywhere."

She slid her arms beneath his and carefully lifted him from the floor. He was heavy, resisting without meaning to. But Artemis was stronger than she looked—and more than that, she refused to let go.

Step by step, she guided him to the bed, then sat back against the pillows, propped up by the headboard, and pulled him with her until he lay against her chest. Her long hair tangled between them like a blanket, her lavender scent filling his nose.

"Here," she murmured. "Listen. Listen closely."

She cradled his head to her breast, holding it there, her other hand splayed protectively across his back.

"Do you hear that?" she asked, her voice barely brushing the air. "That's my heartbeat. I'm alive. I'm right here."

His breathing was still ragged, but it slowed by inches. His ear pressed to her chest, skin hot and damp with sweat. Beneath his cheek, her heart beat steady and strong—thump, thump, thump—as if daring death to try its hand.

For a while, they stayed like that, the fiery light fading from violent orange to a tender, dusky amber that seemed to embrace them both.

Emmrich's fingers gripped her shirt weakly. His trembling eased as the minutes dragged on, the panic melting like ice against her touch. Then his breath hitched again—but this time, it was a sob.

"I'm sorry..." he whimpered.

Artemis held him tighter. "Don't be. I'm glad your first instinct was to come to me."

He clung to her like a drowning man to driftwood—weeping quietly, broken sounds muffled by her shirt.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I didn't mean—"

"It's all right," she whispered, stroking his hair. "We'll get through this, I promise. I'm not going anywhere."

She kissed the top of his head, gently, and didn't move again.

"Thank you," he managed to say, his eyes fluttering shut.

And there, in the safety of her arms—lulled by the steady rhythm of her heartbeat—Emmrich smiled, eventually drifting into a peaceful slumber.

[whathorselegs]

I have discovered a creative writing group that happens once a month near me and I am weighing up whether I want to attempt going.

Reasons not to go:

I am not used to sharing my original writing to anyone, let alone in person

I don't actually have any original fiction in the works right now, so I would have roughly seven days to come up with something

It's from 6pm to 8pm so it would be dark out at this time of year. Very spooky scary.

Have to get public transport whilst it's dark out because I don't drive. Even more spooky scary.

There's a photo of the group on the site and I would be the most obviously queer person there

Reasons to go:

I need to get out the house more in general

I want to start writing original fiction again

It's free to go (Not counting bus ticket)

It's held in an independently run book store, cool fun place to support

Could gain writer friends

?? Profit?????

[shiorimakibawrites]

Image Credits: kissthemgoodbye.net / Greta Punch (Unsplash) / Stephanie Harvey (Unsplash)

A Tale of Two Men (Cozy Corners #1)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 6,595 Summary: One week after you open your cafe, you meet two handsome men - defense attorney Matt Murdock and the vigilante Daredevil. Warning(s): Canon-typical violence, description of anxiety and panic attacks, referenced oral sex (f receiving), referenced p in v sex, referenced masturbation, dirty thoughts, female gaze Cozy Corners Masterlist Shiori's Masterlist A03 link Tag List: @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer , @danzer8705 Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. Divider Credit: @firefly-graphics

A Tale of Two Men

You couldn’t stop smiling. Owning your own cafe had been the dream of you and your best friend Dora Morales since high school. And now, after years of hard work, it had finally happened. One week ago, you had opened your doors for the first time. You looked around. You and Dora had done everything you could, within the limitations of your lease and budget, to make Cozy Corners to live up to its name. Warm, comfortable, and inviting.

You were especially pleased with the little nook, tucked away from the main bustle of the cafe where people could read and study in relative quiet. You had found some nice chairs in a secondhand store, their brown leather the color of chocolate and butter soft. The little library of reference books and fiction was small but you hoped that over time it would grow. Yes, people were more likely to use the internet to look things up these days but you liked having analog back-ups. Just in case something got broken. Or the city was invaded by aliens. Again.

You found having back-up plans helped calm your nerves, made the anxiety gremlin in your head less loud. You were a big fan of keeping that gremlin quiet. You didn’t like it when the gremlin got loud. It was mean.

Hearing the bell on the front door chime, you looked up to greet your new customer. And immediately felt your stomach fill with butterflies. Because one of the most beautiful men you had ever laid eyes on had just walked into your cafe. Dark brown – no, dark auburn, you could see the glint of red in the sunlight – hair that looked like it would be very enjoyable to run your fingers through, excellent bone structure, and a mouth practically begging to be kissed. Round sunglasses with dark red lenses hide his eyes from view. Which was unfortunate. Especially if they were just as pretty as the rest of him.

The brown suit he worn, by contrast, did very little to disguise how well-built he was. Which was very, if the strain on buttons of his dress shirt was any indication. He moved an enviable grace as he walked toward the counter, his long white cane sweeping in front of him.

“Good morning, sir,” you said. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning,” he replied. His voice was pretty too, nice and deep. The kind you could easily imagine whispering everything from sweet nothings to dirty promises in your ear. The thought made your cheeks warm and your heart beat at little faster.

His lips twitched into something like a smirk before he asked, “Do you have a menu in braille?”

You sighed, then said, “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” he repeated, tilting his head to one side.

“I have something in braille. The printing service claims that it’s my menu.”

“I take it that you disagree?”

“I don’t sell a cinematic rainbow muffler.”

“What?”

The sheer disbelief and confusion put into that single ‘what’ had you biting your lip to not laugh. You didn’t want him to think you were joking or making fun of him.

“Cinematic rainbow muffler,” you repeated. “Not something we sell here at Cozy Corners.”

His lips twitched. “I don’t think anyone does. What was it supposed to be?”

“Cinnamon raisin muffin.”

His brow furrowed. “That . . . doesn’t even have the same amount of letters. How did they manage get that?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” you said, shaking your head. “The whole thing is like that.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” you said, pulling out the copy you had left under the counter in case you needed a laugh. Which was about the only thing it was good for. You sat it down in front of him. “It’s at your twelve o’clock if you want to see for yourself.”

Mr. Handsome took you up on that offer. While he read – or rather attempted to read since you knew sections were completely unintelligible – you idly wondered if the dark facial hair dusting his face was the start of a beard or if he just didn’t feel like shaving this morning . . . you had the feeling he would look good either way . . .

Case in point, all that look of utter befuddlement like he didn’t whether to laugh or to be irritated by what he was reading did was make him look adorable. You needed to be careful. This guy was dangerously pretty.

“What is 78554.051?” He asked, looking like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“What?”

“It’s listed as one of the drinks. I think. I assume you don’t serve dribbles.”

“No, sir,” you said, thinking. “My best guess is that someone put the number sign where it didn’t belong.”

Mr. Handsome hummed thoughtfully, re-running his fingers over one section of the menu of nonsense. “Green tea.”

“Now that I do have,” you said. “Speaking of which, would you like to order a drink?”

“I don’t know . . . ,” he said with a teasing grin. “Drinking a coffin sounds dangerous.”

“It does,” you agreed, ignoring the continued presence of the butterflies to go along with the banter. “Does coffee sound better?”

“Infinitely.”

You gave him a quick rundown of the coffee options. He ordered a red eye for himself, which always sounded like a lot of caffeine to you but you didn’t know this man’s life. While he didn’t look tired, maybe he had been working a lot of hours lately and needed the extra oomph. Apparently he didn’t think his coworkers needed extra caffeine as they got a cappuccino and a dirty chai.

“What’s the name?” you asked. Mr. Handsome might be the only customer right now but that could change any minute. It was only a little after nine. Plenty of people might still be heading toward school or work, people who might decide to grab a coffee (and maybe some food) on their way.

“Matt.”

“Matt,” you repeated, both to make sure that you had heard him correctly and because you wanted to say it. If for no other reason so you wouldn’t accidentally call him Mr. Handsome outloud. He nodded in confirmation. “Just coffee this morning?”

He made another thoughtful hum. “I probably shouldn’t have just coffee for breakfast. What’s on offer?”

“We have bagels, muffins, croissants, turnovers, doughnuts, frittatas, and breakfast sandwiches.”

“Hmmm, those all sound great,” he said.

“Take your time,” you said, “Think about it while I make your drinks?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

You turned to start making the coffee. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him flinch a little when the machine started grinding the beans. Which you couldn’t really blame him for. It wasn’t a nice sound. Easily one of your least favorite. But Dora, who was a coffee aficionado, might actually kill you if you even thought about using anything other than freshly ground coffee for espresso.

She had explained why it mattered. And demonstrated how changing how fine the grind was effected the drink. But that didn’t make the noise any less unpleasant. Which was probably why she hadn’t been able to talk you into freshly grinding your coffee at home. Not yet anyway. You were getting worn down on the issue. Agreeing would at least mean she would stop giving you that look of actual pain everytime she saw your can of already-ground coffee.

Pulling the shot part of the espresso was a lot more pleasant on the ears. With the added bonus of putting out that nice fresh coffee smell. You poured the shot into the waiting to-go cup of the house brew. You knew some places poured the hot coffee into the espresso but Dora thought that method disturbed the crèma too much.

You were pouring in the frothed milk with the chai concentrate into the double-shot of espresso for his coworkers’ dirty chai when Matt spoke again.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did but you can ask another one,” you said, feeling a little bold from his earlier friendliness, as you put the finished drink into the carrier alongside it’s companions.

He chuckled. “Left myself wide open for that one . . . Are you the owner?”

“Co-owner with my best friend, Dora,” you answered, tapping the used grounds into the knock box.

“Dora and who?” Matt asked with a charming smile. You felt your heart sped up. Something about smiling transformed his already handsome face into something breathtakingly beautiful. You had no resistant to something like that. You told him your name.

“That’s a pretty name.”

“And that was a line,” you said. One that you had heard numerous times. Through never from someone this good looking.

“It can be,” he acknowledged before subtly shifting his posture. He hadn’t been slouching before but there had been a relaxed air to the way he carried himself. Now he was standing there, straight-backed and shoulders square, his hands resting on the white cane held upright between his feet like it was some medieval courtiers’ staff of office. He had a presence. One that you suddenly realized had been there all along. It was just front and center now.

When he spoke again, there had also been a subtle shift to his voice. Easy self-assurance had been replaced with rock-solid confidence and conviction. Not thundering like an angry priest, just the calm, even voice of someone who knows they are correct, that the facts were on their side.

“Does that phrase being used as a pick-up line mean that a name cannot be pretty?”

“No,” you said. “A name can still be pretty.”

“Generally speaking, is your name one of the pretty ones?”

“Yes?” you said slowly. Why did you feel like you had just walked into a trap? Maybe it was that little edge of sharpness to his smile? . . . .

“Well, if names can be pretty and your name is one of those pretty names, then you have a pretty name.”

“I suppose,” you conceded. It was hard to argue with that logic. Especially when you didn’t actually want to argue that your name was ugly. You liked your name. And it was nice to hear something about you called pretty. Even if it was just your name.

“A pretty name for a beautiful girl.”

Warmth spread across your cheeks. That smile should be illegal. As for the words . . . he probably didn’t mean them. He was obviously something of a flirt. Regardless . . . it was still nice to hear. Still made your heart flutter.

“And that was absolutely a line,” you said, fidgeting with the ties on your apron. “Flattery is not going get you a free muffin.”

“It’s not flattery if it is true,” he said. Which did nothing to lessen the warmth in your face. “And since muffins are off the table, what about the doughnuts? Or the turnovers?”

You laughed. “Sorry. As much as I would like to give out free coffee and food, unfortunately there are all these places that expect me to pay them with money.”

“Instead of an excellent pie, like a sensible person?”

“Exactly,” you said, once again finding yourself drawn into the banter in spite of your nerves. You knew one thing for certain about Matt – he was definitely charming.

He nodded solemnly, like this was a serious conversation. “I’ve encountered the same problem with my small business.”

“You did?” you said. Then, feeling genuinely curious, you asked him, “What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“A lawyer who wants to get paid in pie?” you said, feeling a little skeptical. Didn’t lawyers usually work in big offices that paid them big money? Granted your experience with lawyers was largely limited to baby-faced ones who were grabbing coffee for the office or law students who looked like they had forgotten what sleep was . . .

“I like pie,” he said mildly. “But, as you said, since so many people want money instead of pie, my partner insists that’s what we charge for our services.”

“That’s a shame,” you said.

“It is,” Matt agreed solemnly. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “What to know a secret? If you ever need to bribe Foggy, try bagels. He can resist pie but never a good bagel.”

“Duly noted,” you said. “I assume Foggy is your partner?”

“Yep,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law.”

“Nelson?” you repeated. “Any relation to Nelson’s Meats?”

You expected the answer to be no. This was New York City, after all, not a small town. But, to your surprise, Matt nodded and said, “Yes, it’s his family’s butcher shop. How do you know Nelson’s?”

“We buy the meat for the cafe from them,” you explained as you placed the to-go carrier by the cash register. “Did you ever reach a verdict on breakfast?”

He chuckled. “Jury is still out, I’m afraid. It all smells so good. Can you give me a recommendation?”

Your heart gave another excited flutter at the compliment as you thought about it. Then, with a little hesitation, said, “Maybe bagels? That way, if I need to bribe your partner, he knows what he’s getting out of the deal?”

“Good idea,” Matt said with a smile. “What favors do you have?”

After being given his options, he opted for a plain for himself and an everything for Foggy. After some further consideration an apple turnover for Karen, the third person at his office. He thought the sweetness of the turnover would compliment the spices of her dirty chai better than a bagel.

Soon the rest of his order was bagged up and paid for. Before he left, he tapped the menu of nonsense with his finger. “Can I have a copy of this? Otherwise I’m pretty sure Foggy will think I’m making it up.”

“Go ahead,” you said. “I’ve got other copies.”

He smiled, then tucked the menu into the bag with the food. He feed his arm through the handles of the bag, then picked up the drinks carrier. Considering his left hand was occupied with his cane . . .

“Would you like me to open the door for you?”

“Please.”

On the downside, Cozy Corners wasn’t very big so that particular journey didn’t take very long. But on the upside, you got to watch him walk down the street, discovering that he had a perfect ass. Because of course he did. You sighed. Why was everything about this man so attractive . . .

“I saw that.”

You jumped with a small shriek and whirled around. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was Dora. How long had she been standing there?

“Saw what?” you demanded, walking back over to the counter.

“So many things,” she said with a knowing grin. “You flirting with Mr. Matthew Murdock, Esquire? Undressing him with your eyes? Checking out his ass? I saw it all.”

Warmth flooded your face. “I wasn’t undressing him with my eyes!”

“Yes, you were,” Dora said with the utter confidence of someone who had known you since you were ten and therefore knew all of your tells.

“Maybe I was,” you muttered as you tidied up the work station. It needed to be done but also gave you an excuse not to see that knowing grin. Which you knew, without even looking, had just gotten bigger.

“And now you are thinking about how loudly he could make you scream.”

“Dora!” You exclaimed, your head whipping around to make sure the cafe was still as empty as it was the last time you looked. It was. “Is this really the time for that? We’re at work!”

“That wasn’t a denial,” she pointed out in a sing-song voice. “I’m betting on very loud.”

“What makes you say that?” you asked, suspicion in your voice. “Did you sleep with him?”

The very thought sparked a little flame of jealousy inside you. Which you hated. You didn’t want feel jealous of your best friend . . .

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But I know someone who did. She said Murdock loves eating pussy. That he fucked her better with his tongue than any man ever had with their dick.”

“Dora!” You whined. Because now you were thinking about it. Now you were trying to imagine that handsome face buried between your thighs. It was an appealing image. Very appealing. But one you would rather not have when you could do nothing to quench the heat growing between your legs. “Why are you telling me this?!”

“You’ve been under way too much stress lately. Orgasms are wonderful stress relief.”

“Matt Murdock isn’t a requirement for me to have an orgasm,” you said mulishly. You had hands. And a vibrator. Both had served you well in that department. Often better than men had.

“Perhaps not,” she said, nodding in acknowledgment before flashing you a wicked smile. “But that’s who you are going to imagine fucking you senseless while you flick the bean, isn’t it?”

You were spared from having to answer that question by the arrival of new customers.

You managed to avoid any further conversation about Matt Murdock and what he could do with his tongue. Or other body parts. You put that down to two things. First, there had been a steady stream of customers to keep you both busy. Most had been simply curious about the new business in the neighborhood or tourists needing a quick break. The latter made you a little nostalgic, remembering your first days in the city and how overwhelmed you had felt. But some of the customers were repeats from earlier visits. Something that you hoped would continue.

Second, while you were still working on hiring, you did have some staff. Staff that had come in around lunch time and were there until final clean-up. It was one thing for Dora to speak so frankly about your sex life (or the lack thereof) when it was just the two of you but in front of others? Others who were your employees? Who likely would be very uncomfortable with that conversation? That was an entirely different kettle of fish. Not one that Dora or you had any desire to partake in.

By the time you were locking up the cafe and setting the alarm, Dora had seemingly forgotten all about Matt Murdock and how you had – allegedly – been undressing him with your eyes. It might only be temporary reprieve. Assuming he didn’t hate the coffee and food, Matt would be back. Despite the certainty of teasing from your best friend, you hoped that he came back.

Not because you thought had any chance with him. You weren’t delusional. Men that good-looking didn’t go for people like you . . . but if he was a regular, you could at least look at him. You’d get to talk to him. Though seeing him with girlfriends was going to suck . . .

“Are you sure that you don’t want me and Steve to walk you home?” Dora asked, looking worried.

“Yes,” you said, looking over at your best friend and her steady boyfriend. He had come to pick her up as usual. “I’m in the opposite direction of you guys.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve said. You knew that he didn’t. He made similar offers since he and Dora had started dating. And never complained or acted annoyed when you accepted the offer. But your apartment was much closer to Cozy Corners than their place, which weren’t even in the Kitchen. The only time you had accepted the offer since the cafe opened was the day before and only because you were dropping off the deposit at the bank. Then, carrying your opening week’s worth of cash, you felt like you had needed some extra security. Steve was a very sweet guy but he was also a tall man with large muscles. Not exactly the easy target that most criminals are looking for.

“I’ll be fine,” you said. “It’s not that late and my place isn’t far.”

“Okay,” Dora said. “If you are sure?”

“I am.”

Mollified by your conviction, Steve and Dora left. You watched them go around the corner before heading off yourself. You walked swiftly. Because rain had been predicted tonight and it was starting to get chilly at night. It wasn’t quite cold yet but brisk enough that you needed a jacket and didn’t fancy getting soaked. You couldn’t afford to get sick right now. Your business was too new . . . and Lady Who Sneezes A Lot wasn’t exactly the second impression you wanted to give Matt.

You might have very few hopes of attracting his interest but that didn’t mean you wanted to completely tank what little chance you had . . . You shook your head. You needed to stop the daydreaming. This wasn’t the time for it. Daredevil was back from wherever he had disappeared to but the vigilante only made things safer, not safe . . .

There was no warning. You were walking, almost home. Then you were grabbed from behind. You screamed as you were dragged toward the gap between two buildings. You dropped the sack holding your dinner and tried to struggle, to resist, but your attacker was too strong for you. You were pulled into the shadows and slammed into the side of a building. It knocked the wind of you.

Heart pounding, you desperately tried to suck in air. To get your breath back. You needed to scream again. Scream in the Kitchen and the Devil came. That was the story. That was the hope. But was one scream enough? You didn’t know. So you had to scream. Scream and pray all those stories were true . . .

You started to scream . . . then agony exploded on the left side of your face, transforming that scream into a cry of pain. Everything from your cheek down to your jaw immediately began to throb. It hurt. Worse than the time your sister Alex had accidentally given you a black eye with a softball. The bruising grip on your shoulder that kept you pinned against the wall barely even registered.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” the man ordered in a low hiss. “Make another sound and I’ll slit your throat.”

Tears were blurring your vision but you could see the knife he was brandishing. It wasn’t a small pocket knife. It was a chef’s knife. Like the one you had at home and at the cafe. And it was stained with something. You bit down hard on your bottom lip to stop a terrified whimper. It was too dark for you to tell with what but you feared that it was blood.

Apparently satisfied that you were too frightened to be anything but compliant, the man released your shoulder.

“Purse,” the man demanded. “Watch. Jewelry.”

Trembling, you removed your crossbody bag and held it out. It was taken and slung onto his shoulder. You ignore the watch directive since you weren’t wearing one. It was when you tried to remove your jewelry that things went wrong. The only piece of jewelry that you were wearing, a necklace, had a very delicate chain with a tiny clasp. Your hands were shaking too much for you to get a good grip on the lobster clasp, let alone open it and slip out the ring. The chain wasn’t big enough to pull the whole necklace over your head. Every time, the clasp slipped out of your fingers, your panic grew. Which only made the trembling worse.

It didn’t take long for the mugger to lose patience. His hand darted out and grabbed the necklace. He yanked hard, snapping the chain. More tears filled your eyes. It was bad enough that he was stealing your favorite necklace. Did he have to break it too? Then, to your horror, he raised the knife. You screamed, instinctively throwing up your arms to try to protect yourself. Your eyes squeezed shut, bracing yourself for the pain that you knew was coming.

Except it never came.

What came was a growl, low and furious. It was accompanied by the sound of something flying through the air. You heard a pained yelp and something metal clattering to the ground. You cautiously opened your eyes just in time to see someone put himself between you and the mugger.

Someone dressed entirely in black, save for the thick white ropes tied around his forearms and hands. Someone wearing a mask. Daredevil, you realized with a dizzying sense of relief. It might not be the more distinctive red outfit and its horned helmet but you were sure it was him . . . the stories were true. Scream in Hell’s Kitchen and the Devil will come to save you.

“You made a big mistake,” Daredevil snarled at the mugger, each word dripping with fury and utter contempt. “By not fleeing when you had the chance.”

Then he threw himself at the man.

Your legs turned to liquid. You fell back against the wall and slide down. You didn’t care the street was getting your pants dirty. You had to sit. While your legs were uninterested in supporting your weight, you could pull them up and wrap your arms around them. So you did. It was almost like a hug and you could use one right now.

You couldn’t stop shaking. The sound of breaking bones, meaty thwacks, and a man’s screams were oddly distant. Like you were listening to something through a well instead something happening just a few feet away. Scent, however, was viscerally and intensely present. Acrid car exhaust, rotting garbage, coopery blood, sweet peaches, and sour sweat filled your nose. You gagged, then tried to breathe through your mouth to lessen the nauseating combination. But you couldn’t get your throat to work . . . you couldn’t get enough air . . . your vision darkened . . . . you couldn’t breathe . . .

You weren’t sure which penetrated past the panic first – the hands massaging your shoulders or the deep voice speaking. But once it did, you were suddenly aware of both. You almost couldn’t believe your own eyes and ears. Was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen really kneeling in front of your huddled body? Were those gloved hands gently gripped your shoulders, really the same ones that had just literally beaten a man bloody?

“You’re safe, it’s okay . . .”

The soft, quiet voice was completely at odds with his grim reputation. It also sounded a little familiar but you were too exhausted to try remembering where you had heard it. It had been a long day and panic attacks always took a lot out of you.

You weren’t so tired that you missed that the Devil was a good-looking man. And not just in the face. Those grainy surveillance photos in the newspaper hadn’t conveyed just how tight his clothing was. Which was very tight. His shirt, for example, was practically painted on. You could see his muscles. His many, many muscles. He had clearly hit the muscle store during a clearance sale . . .

The thought made you giggle. It sounded more like a wheeze and more than a little hysterical but still a giggle. But you needed a laugh. You were alive. You had been sure that you were about to die. That you were going to be stabbed to death in a robbery gone bad . . . you started to tremble again, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather . . . you could have died . . . your bottom lip quivered . . .

Hands squeezed your shoulders, “Hey, hey, look at me.”

That didn’t sound too hard. Only half of his face was visible but what you could see was mighty fine.

A deep chuckle. “Thanks for the compliment.”

‘Note to self – abject terror followed by panic attack completely dissolves your brain-to-mouth filter. Shut up before you ask if it is actually possible to bounce a quarter off of his abs.’

Another deep chuckle alerted you that you might have also said that outloud. A theory confirmed by his statement, “I’ve never tried. Can you do something for me?”

Warmth filled your cheeks as you nodded. He smiled at you. It was a nice smile. “Follow my lead? Deep breathe in . . .”

You mimicked the inhale, the short hold, then slow release out.

“Good! Now again . . .”

It seemed like forever but eventually you felt calm. Or at least not like you were about to have another panic attack. That was good. Panicking was exhausting. Daredevil seemed to agree with your self-assessment as he had stopped instructing you to take deep breathes. After one more reassuring squeeze, his hands slid off of your shoulders. He sat back on his heels.

“Feeling better now?” he asked, his voice returning to what you assumed was his Daredevil speaking voice – low, deep, with a growling rasp. It was possible he sounded like this all the time. It wasn’t like you had ever meet him outside the mask. Well, as far you knew. You supposed that you could have but how would you know . . .

“Yes,” you said, when you remembered that you had been asked a question. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not from a certain point of view. You were feeling better now that you were no longer teetering on the edge of a second panic attack in a short space of time. You knew this calm, almost numb, feeling was fragile. It would shatter instantly if pressed too hard. But that was the best you could hope for right now. Feeling any better than this would require things that weren’t here – like your most comfortable clothes and your pets – along with time.

Daredevil frowned, tilting his head slightly to one side. It was hard to interpret the expression on his face since you couldn’t see most of it. But it seemed like he was staring at you (through how he saw anything through that mask was a mystery) as if you were a puzzle he was trying to figure out. Or maybe he was simply skeptical. That was possible. You had seen how you looked after panic attacks. In his shoes, you wouldn’t believe you about being fine either.

“I’m as fine as I’m going to get tonight,” you amended.

That answer, at least, was deemed plausible to him. He nodded, then pulled something about the little pouch attached to his belt. A cellphone. Who was he calling? Since you had no energy for guessing games, you simply asked.

“The police,” he said.

Well that was your cue to get out of here. You couldn’t think of something you would rather deal with less right now. Your usual post-panic attack headache was already growing – no need to kick it into migraine territory with sirens and flashing lights. You shifted onto your knees so you could get to your feet.

“What are you doing?” Daredevil asked.

“Going home.”

“Home? Shouldn’t you be going to the hospital?”

Amazing, he had found something worse than the police. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” you said. “I don’t wanna.”

His lips twitched. “You don’t wanna?”

“What are you, a parrot?” you demanded, feeling your temper flare. If you had been less tired or not in pain, that question would have playful. But you were tired and hurting so that question was grouchy. So was the rest of your statement. “Yes, I don’t wanna. No, I don’t care that is whinny. I’ve had a shitty night! I’ll whine if I want to!”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, spitfire. No hospital.”

As the anger drained, you felt a swell of guilt for yelling at him after he just saved your life. This was why you did your best to avoid people when your social batteries were running too low to manage basic human interaction. It seemed like you always ended up biting someone’s head off for no good reason.

“I’m sorry,” you said, shifting back onto your bottom. You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead against your knees. You didn’t care that your pants were dirty. You needed to hide. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just too tired to be peopling right now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I understand.”

You cracked up an eye and turned your face to peer at him with that one eye. Again, it was almost impossible to get a read on his expression but he didn’t seem bothered. And vigilante like him probably did know a thing or too about having a temper. Suddenly feeling curious, you asked, “How good does it feel to punch crime in the face?”

A wolfish smirk spread across his face before he answered, “Sometimes very good. Why?”

You shrugged, “Don’t know. Maybe I’m looking for a career change. Punching bad guys sounds more fun than getting punched by bad guys.”

You got the impression he was giving you a very stern look from behind that mask. That mouth pressed together in a thin line was all disapproval. “How about you leave the punching bad guys to me and I’ll leave the baking to you?”

“How did you know I’m a baker?” you asked. Then felt a little stupid for asking. You were still wearing your chef’s jacket and an apron. It was pretty obvious that you worked with food . . .

“You smell like flour, yeast, butter, sugar, and spices which all says baker to me,” he said. “Through you also smell like peaches. The fruit, not the flowers.”

You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you were expecting. You also hadn’t realized that the scent of your peach beauty products were that strong. They smelled pretty light to you. But before you could think of a response to that, Daredevil rose to his feet. Which gave you a nice look at his legs which like his torso and arms was muscles for days barely contained by tight clothes. The black trousers weren’t quite as painted on as the shirt but they were snug enough. The naughtier parts of your mind wondered what it would be like to ride him, feeling those powerful thighs under you as he thrust up . . .

“Spitfire?”

Embarrassed warmth flood your face. While you were distracted, Daredevil had held out his hands and obviously asked if you wanted help standing. More than once if that amused smirk was any indication. You put your hands into his before you could embarrass yourself any further. A goal immediately challenged by watching the muscles in his arms flex as he helped pull you up onto your feet without a hint of strain. Because damn if that wasn’t hot . . .

Thankfully this time you managed not to become so distracted by the sexy vigilante that you just stood like there drooling like an idiot. You slide your hands out of his and then, to prevent yourself from staring at all those muscles (again), started looking for your crossbody bag. You hoped that the mugger had dropped it during the fight with Daredevil. Because as much as you wanted and needed your things back, you also would rather not get any closer to that man than you had to.

It didn’t matter that mugger was (probably) unconscious and (very probably) too beaten up to be a threat anymore. Not to anxiety brain. Anxiety brain was seldom appeased by such frivolities as fact and logic. So when you spied the large, still shape on the ground, your heart started racing again.

“Don’t worry about him.”

You looked over at Daredevil. He wasn’t even looking in the same direction that you were but still seemed to know what you were looking at. Almost like he read your mind . . . could he read your minds? God, you hoped not . . .

“I promise he’s not going anywhere soon,” Daredevil continued, his earlier rage coloring his voice a little. Part of you wanted to know what the mugger had done to make him so angry but most of you decided that you were better off not knowing. Your brain did not need help coming up with nightmares.

Feeling reassured by Daredevil’s confidence (and the knowledge that he was still between you and the mugger), you looked for your bag again . . . there it was. It was closer than you expected. You started to move closer but your foot encountered something. Something metal judging by the sound against the concrete. You looked, hoping it wasn’t the knife.

It wasn’t . . . too small . . . you knelt down and discovered your necklace. You picked it up, glad that you wouldn’t have to try to find something so small in such poor lighting or run the risk of it being gone by morning. Which it probably would have been. Aside from the broken chain, you hoped the rest of it was undamaged. You ran your thumb across the surface . . . it didn’t feel like any of stones had gotten chipped or cracked . . . the engraving could still be read . . .

“What are you doing?”

You jumped a little at the voice before remembering Daredevil. You were surprised he was still here. Weren’t there other damsels in distress he needed to be rescuing?

“Not at the moment.”

Either you were still saying things outloud without realizing it or Daredevil could absolutely read minds. You decided to believe the former because the latter was too mortifying to contemplate.

“Checking my favorite necklace,” you said as you darted forward and grabbed your bag. “Doesn’t feel like anything but the chain got broken.”

He nodded. “Ice those bruises when you get home – ten minutes on, twenty off. And try to keep your head elevated. After two days, you can use a heat compress.”

“Ice and prop up tonight, heat in a couple days,” you repeated. At his confirming nod, you asked, “Are you a doctor or something?”

“Just familiar with bruises” he said. “Trust me, spitfire, the bad guys often hit back when you’re punching them.”

You nodded, then realized that any further delay was just stalling. But as much as part of you wanted to keep talking – how often did you get a chance to talk to one of the city’s heroes? – the rest of you was still tired, still feeling jittery-numb from the panic attacks, and still hurting. And you had work tomorrow. It was time to call it a night.

“I guess this is good night,” you said, taking one last look at the vigilante. Odds were, the only time you’d see him again was in the newspaper.

“Good night, spitfire,” Daredevil said. Maybe it was projection but his smile looked a little sad. Like he also knew this was probably the first and only time you would ever see each other.

You paused when you reached the street to pick up your bag of food. It was probably a mess but you were definitely weren’t going to cook when you got home. As you walked away, you faintly heard the low rumble of Daredevil’s voice, presumably talking to the police on that phone.

Notes:

A Tale of Two Men is a reference to A Tale of Two Cities, an 1859 novel by Charles Dickens. I’m thinking about making all of the titles for this series reference book titles.

It occurred to me recently that my Reader characters in the series all are some level of anxious. Probably because I have anxiety and that colors how I perceive the world. Hence the Reader with anxiety.

The alien invasion is a reference to the events of Avengers I. Fair warning that some of the larger events of the MCU will not be depicted same as they were in canon. Accept that this is an alternate universe and move on.

I know Charlie Cox has brown hair but in some lighting for Matt Murdock, his hair does have reddish tint . . . and Matt in the comics is (generally speaking) a redhead so I’ve compromised by making Matt Murdock have dark auburn hair, the kind that looks brown unless the light hits it right and brings out the red.

Reader is sighted but knows how to read braille. The story behind this will be revealed later.

This knowledge is only reason Reader considers the misprinted menu of nonsense to be funny. She would have not find it funny if she found out about the misspellings and such after handing it to customers.

From my understanding, using the hands of a clock is the best way to tell a blind person where something is relative to their position. The menu of nonsense was right in front of Matt so at his 12 o’clock. Directly behind would have been his 6 o’clock, etc.

In braille, the symbols for numbers 1 – 9 and the letters A – I are the same along with J and 0. The number sign is written before tells you those symbols are meant to be read as numbers instead of letters. So 123 instead of ABC. If I have the information right, a second number sign is used to indict the end of the numbers and return to letters.

But all of my knowledge of braille is self-taught so don’t take my words as gospel here.

A red eye is a 12 oz (340 g) cup of drip coffee topped with a single or double shot of espresso.

A cappuccino is a coffee drink with a double shot of espresso topped with a very frothy milk. It is slightly stronger than a latte because it has less milk.

A dirty chai latte is a coffee drink with a double shot of espresso, then a chai concentrate is poured into the milk which is frothed. Finally the milk and espresso are combined.

Crèma is a dense layer of foam that forms the top of an espresso shot and is a unique characteristic to the brewing method (forcing very hot water under pressure through finely ground compacted coffee).

At least in this fic, Matt Murdock is a proud member of The Pie Appreciation Society. The Society ranks include its long serving president Dean Winchester.

How much a lawyer makes a year depends on where they work and what kind of law they practice. People who work in public sector offices like a public defender or a state prosecutor generally make a comfortable living but they are never going to get wealthy doing that job. There are some lawyers who charge six figures or more per billable hour but those seem to be litigators and they aren’t as common as the associates who charge something less crazy (through probably still an eye-watering amount of money to some).

It’s Nelson & Murdock because (1) this takes place not too longer after the 3rd Season so they are still working out of the back of Nelson’s Meats and (2) New York law prohibits the formation of the Law Firm of Nelson, Murdock, and Page unless all three are attorneys. So if Karen wants her name on the sign, she has a law degree to earn and a bar exam to pass. Which she just might do in this universe.

The white cane is held in one’s dominant hand. I picked the left hand for Matt as another nod to his comic book counterpart who is (again usually) left-handed.

Esquire is an honorific title that is only used in the United States for lawyers for . . . reasons. No one seems to know why.

‘Flick the bean’ is a euphemism for female masturbation.

A chef's knife is a knife about 8 inches (20 cm) long used for chopping, slicing, and dicing meat and vegetables. Unless you have something like a meat cleaver, it is probably the biggest knife in your kitchen.

The favorite necklace is part of some story elements so this is not a generic favorite necklace but a specific favorite necklace. But if you want to mentally change the specific elements of its later description to better suit yourself, go right ahead.

A lobster clasp is the one that looks a like a lobster claw.

Matt is in the Black Suit since he has yet to replace the Red Suit – the old one being too damaged by the Midland Circle and only other one in existence was worn by the impostor who murdered people. A version of the Red Suit will eventually appear (since as hot as the black suit is, the guy without a healing factor needs body armor) but I’m still working out how.

The description of the panic attack (shortness of breath, sensory overload, etc) along with its aftereffects (exhaustion, mood swings, etc) are based on my experiences.

Spitfire is nickname for someone with a temper, possibly referencing the WW2 plane.

The treatment for bruises comes from internet so grains of salt are advised.

A chef's jacket is a double-breasted jacket with mandarin collar commonly worn by chefs and bakers, traditionally made from thick, white cotton cloth but can be made in different colors these days. The thickness of the jacket is meant to help protect the chef or baker from heat, steam, and splashing liquids in a busy kitchen. Frequently the jacket has long sleeves to help protect arms while reaching into the ovens.